This Much I Know
by The Sad Lion
Summary: The recollections of several draenei who survived the genocide on Draenor, following the crash of the Exodar on Azuremyst Island.
1. Altan

Everything that is, is alive.

My name is Altan and this much I know.

I find solace in this world. It is peaceful and quiet and beautiful and vivid. The wind is gentle and soothes my restlessness ; the mist veils all the living in a serene shroud ; the air is bittersweet, full of the mourning and guilt of many and the eager expectation of few. I count among the latter. I was deemed a lunatic by my peers, an outcast to the social norm of my people, who pride themselves on their unshakable and righteous faith in the Light; for I had too long wandered in the shadows. I merely thought of the Light as a philosophy, an abstract concept meant to guide the people in times of dire need, hope for lost souls like my own.

Yet the contemplative mood I relished in since childhood was often mistaken for bold demeanor or sheer reverie—whereas I had been, unbeknownst to all, even myself, deeply and intimately entwined with the elements. I pondered over the scent of a cleansing rain, the purple flowers swaying to a soft summerbreeze, the glowing ember of the fireflies in my mother's garden, as if they had some special meaning I only managed to grasp. I truly believe Nature has endowed all of us with Her gift, yet most choose to study the arcane or learn the art of battle, mostly out of convenience.

That I do not know. I admit I lack knowledge in such fields—we draenei excell in many things; but what I have learned from my apprenticeship at Farseer Nobundo's side is that we are capable of horrid deeds, despite our profound and genuine kindness. Respect, tenacity and compassion, those are the three virtues every draenei strives to achieve in the name of the Holy Light, yet during the shunning of the Broken I have seen none of that. Farseer Nobundo is a good man. He has never given up on his people and I am grateful for having him as a friend. I have made my choice.

Today I will tell my mother and father that I am to follow the path of the shaman. I am fully aware that it is no easy path, and even though I adore my beloved Nayeli more than is reasonable, I fear such feelings are too burdensome in times of dire need.

Everything that is, is alive. Nobundo often reminds me of those words. He knows of my love for her and demands patience where there can be none; and despite her deep sorrow I selfishly wish she would feel the same, although I'd never allow myself to lay eyes upon her and call her my own. She scarcely smiles but when she does she sweetens my lulling routine.

If it dares to be then I hope it is alive.


	2. Altaïr

I am dying.

My name is Altaïr and this much I know.

I fear that I have nothing else to lose than my own life. I do not perceive my death as loss, as I shall embrace the Light very soon and part with my loved ones in peace. I know I will irremediably cause sorrow to my mother and sister, who have not yet given their blessing to our parting ; I wish they did not spoil their tears on me.

In the language of my people I am one of the _Ashj_, the walking dead, for I have truly died the day my wife and daughter were taken from me. My beautiful Ibtihaj was a formidable warrior and a compassionate mind; notwithstanding the lust of many, including orcs, she chose me as her husband, among all others—and they ravaged and raped her tattered, broken body with magic so dark I know the Light will not even welcome her. As for my sweet, joyful daughter Shiryn, she was but a child but those monsters had no mercy, and she was shattered all the same.

We are not one in the Light and I shall be alone. For we draenei may be long-lived but we are unable to mend what the shadows have done.

Prophet Velen has come to me yesterday. I have bid him farewell and he has blessed me with His Light. I'm afraid my agony, as dreadful and intense as it may be, has given me a keen insight on things; memories in flashes and colours so bright it does not rival this new world I'm about to leave.

And I remember everything; the flapping banners ripped to shreds in the plains of Nagrand; the laments of the people as they quenched their thirst in rivers so bloody they resembled turquoise snakes; the bruised corpse of my poor wife; the remains of the Exodar scattering the sky and hurtling towards the earth—it is almost majestic; the sharp, unbearable pain of my impaled shoulder; the lingering aching in my limbs as Altan and Ezkiel ease me out of the debris.

My sister Nayeli is by my side now; she gently strokes my forehead, and kisses me tenderly on the brow. My head is resting on her lap. She is crying; her tears fall on my eyelids. It is growing dark—

I firmly raise my hand, I part my cracked lips, and utter, "No." Blink. There do I see my father's hands clasping with my own. Blink. There do I see my poor, heartbroken mother. Blink. There do I see my nodding, smiling sister. Blink. There do I not see.

Oh—


	3. Nayeli

I have lost my faith in the Light.

My name is Nayeli and this much I know.

Prophet Velen said "Come, child, let us walk together." And so we did. The aftermath of my brother's death has left all of us in a state of sickly stupor, as if grief was a malady. I am the only one though to blame the Light for Altaïr's miserable fate. He didn't deserve this, but yet again who does? I have no right to pretend my brother was more deserving than another. We have suffered too many ordeals already, and our people yearn for some peace, at last, if not acceptance. I shall leave them be, but I crave for something understanding, something meaningful, something fulfulling, hopefully more than the Light has ever been for me in a lifetime.

Velen fondly recalls, with his gentle, solemn voice, that I am as much his child as I am the daughter of my father, and that he loves each and every one of us very much the same. I know he has foreseen my rejection of the Light, as he had foreseen the death of my brother, but he does not tell as we all know that he cannot do a thing to change the course of history and the course of future, and that we alone are allowed to decide for our destiny. It is both his gift and his curse. Long before the blind slaughtering of our kin had he seen that most of the world he had known was doomed to die, and fade away in the shadows—like poor Ibtihaj, whose body and soul were left to rot in the dark; like poor, short-lived Shiryn; like Altaïr who struggled with depression for the rest of his life; like so many of us.

As Velen and I part with a smile and unspoken words that will remain thus, he casually mentions what a keen student my friend Altan has become—I overlook the Vault of Lights, where he stands with Farseer Nobundo, lost in one of those intense conversations that seem as sweet and thrilling as the childish misunderstandings we have had for many, many years now. They both wave at me, and I wave back. I wish it was nothing more than a foolish infatuation, but I know it is not and I am aware that it cannot be for the time being, because a lot has to be done elsewhere. Yet I long for him all the more.

I shall leave. It was Altaïr's last wish. I am to take his remains with me to Nagrand, where I shall return his ashes to the land. My mother has beseeched me not to go but if I don't, I shall fail in my duties as a sister. This I cannot allow.

I have already failed as a person.


	4. Dayo

My mother and father, Light bless them, are no more.

My name is Dayo and this much I know.

I am seventeen years old—an infant by draenei standards. Yet we little children have been thrown into the trials of adulthood with shameless cruelty. And where most of my kind took centuries, even millenia, to understand foreign concepts that did not even translate into our language, such as sorrow, anger, grief, sickness, rape, murder—death; we had to put those into words in less than a decade.

This new world is so bright. Shades of colors that are so unlike what Draenor used to be; red, dusty and hot. Here quiet purple and there strong green; and the immense carmine shreds that tear up the horizon far away, on Bloodmyst Island; and insects of gold that gently glow in the dark of night.

The strange beings—those _kaldorei_—that lived on the island some twenty years before as I'm told, call those fireflies; and more often than not they lecture us on our habit of keeping them in glass lanterns and feeding them. Whenever I wander on the marketplace, I kindly remind the foreign merchants that we have been deprived of light for so long the dim glow of the fireflies soothes the deep, painfully intense grief—

—I try not to think of the horrid fate my Mother and Father have suffered. I feel I have no purpose in this world because my bitterful anger fuels even more the righteous fury in me. It is no longer concealed and I relish in seeking to do my parents some justice.

Archmage Inkeri and her husband have welcomed me into their home. It is quiet and sad; they shamefully mourn and silently weep; as if their sorrow was so unbearably blatant that they feel the need to hide. I hear they have lost their eldest son. He survived both the siege of Shattrath and the genocide only to perish in the crash of the Exodar—and willingly gave himself to the Light. She, on the other hand, has had word of Mother and Father's demise and has taken pity on me.

I am no fool, but a foil to her deceased son; a daughter by proxy.

I wish someone would take care of me, would care _about_ me. Like Mother and Father did.

Oh I miss them so—

—one dreadful day at a time.


	5. Ezkiel

So close, yet so far apart.

My name is Ezkiel and this much I know.

It has been nine months since Altaïr's death. I did not have the heart to remain by my parents' side. They are but a sad reflection of their former selves; grieving souls, barely coping with the loss—the bitter reality of things.

As part of my hunter apprenticeship I was sent to run some errands at Stillpine Hold, where the furbolgs have yet to rebuild what had been taken from them. Corruption lies deep within this land, even more ever since the debris of the Exodar torn the archipelago apart; but the earth is healing. I enjoy living among the Stillpines, they are gentle, kind, selfless creatures—so much unlike the arrogant _kaldorei_ or the self-destructive humans.

For they regard us with childish suspicion, as petty as they may be.

My sister Nayeli is restless; she has promised Mother not to leave until the summer—she often comes to visit me. Yesterday she came unexpectedly to entrust me with the care of a Nightstalker cub; a sickly female who has just recovered from nearly drowning in a waterhole after last week's storm. It is a charming little thing, and her trembling curiosity is very endearing. I have no doubt that she will grow a strong, haughty creature. Nayeli mentioned a human custom that consists in making a gift to someone who is celebrating his or her birthday. We draenei celebrate the day our parents conceive us and not the day we are brought to this world, nonetheless I think it is a very nice tradition and I told Nayeli we ought to follow it each year from now on.

I suppose that our separation is more than she can endure. For as twins we are intimately bonded to each other—our peers revere us and think very highly of us, for we are meant to have some higher purpose that single siblings don't. Yet those are merely superstitious beliefs of times of old; and Nayeli doesn't spare her criticism on those who linger in the past.

My sister is too wise to be soft-spoken; and I too far too open on compromise to scoff at what is essentially harmless faith.

I love her though, more than I will ever any other woman. I am dedicated to her to the point of absolution—and she to me.

As we relish in the quiet, soft breeze of the forest, she gently speaks about her departure. She has made a pledge to Altaïr. She is to discard his ashes in the wild, to Nagrand; she speaks of duty and honor.

I speak only of hope—and of joy. How odd we must seem...


	6. Suhayl

This world is mesmerizing.

My name is Suhayl and this much I know.

As far as my memory goes—and more often than not it fails me—I have never had a true home. I am a draenei, of the Exiled Ones. Thus we are called and thus we are. I was born and I spent my childhood on a world that was not our own; a hot and dry world that went by the name of Draenor; but to the orcs it was the Red World, both red of the sand and red of the blood spilt for their needless tribal wars.

We were slaughtered and saw insane magic annihilate everything that we had learned to love in the two past centuries—a place to call home, only to be left with bits of land and few of our own. Then the _sin'dorei_ came, only to take what little we had left; and so we fled again; and so we lost many.

"There is but one Light and Velen is its prophet." And yet.

My unshakable faith in the Light does not ease my pain; nor has it left me unscathed. I do not question it though and stay true to my beliefs; the same way young Dayo strolls about on the marketplace with the firefly in the glass lantern. She unlike many others has not forsaken the inner Light that exists within each and every one of us.

Dayo is beautiful—dainty and hopeful and sad. My parents raise her as if she were their daughter but the child is no fool and Mother is unwilling, for lack of even trying, to express her love to her like she did to us. I am no more a brother to Dayo than she is a sister to me.

We are as foreign to each other as I am to this land. Trees bathing in a purple halo, casting their shadow on the moss; dewy spiderwebs glistening as dawn casts its first sunrays. It is captivating, _bewitching_ even, and all the more frightening. I know nothing of this world they call Azeroth. It is immense and cold yet breathtaking; warm and familiar yet so quaint; diverse yet disappointingly corresponding. Those _kaldorei_ are no more good than the humans, the dwarves or the gnomes—either arrogant or selfish or warmongering or awfully annoying.

This world is full of splendour but knows no peace, it has been scarred by the very people who vow to preserve it. It is our refuge, our sanctuary, but it does not feel like home. And still...

I wish I was the firefly in Dayo's lantern. I wish I could light her way—

—like she has lit mine.


End file.
